A Week of Valentines
by Ryeloza
Summary: Seven different Valentine's days throughout the years.  Each one focuses on a different couple.
1. Thursday

**Disclaimer: **_Desperate Housewives_ does not belong to me.

**Story Summary: **Seven different Valentine's days. Each one focuses on a different couple.

**A/n: **Hopefully I'll have these all posted by Valentine's day. Enjoy!

**A Week of Valentines**

A story by **Ryeloza**

**Chapter One: Thursday**

_Thursday, February 14, 1991_

The phone was ringing, Danielle had taken an apparently unbreakable grip of Bree's hair, the timer on the oven wouldn't stop beeping, and from where she'd just confined him to the playpen, Andrew was screaming. Every noise seemed to pierce directly to her brain, and the overwhelming stimulation made Bree want to sit down and cry until it ended. If perseverance hadn't become her hourly motto since Danielle was born, she might have. Instead, she turned off the timer, grabbed the phone, and shut the kitchen door to try to block out Andrew's tantrum.

"Hello?" She crooked the phone between her ear and shoulder and with her free hand, attempted to open Danielle's tiny fist.

"What are you wearing?"

Danielle shrieked with laughter, apparently convinced that they were playing a game. Bree was not amused—by either her daughter or the crank call. "Who is this?" she barked into the phone. "You know you're really not impressing anyone with this juvenile—"

"Bree! Bree, it's me."

"Rex?"

He laughed. "Yeah. What's going on? You sound a little frazzled."

"I'm not—Danielle, _let go of Mommy's hair!_"

"Look, I just wanted to call to tell you that I got a reservation for tonight. You and I at that little French place you love."

Bree frowned, so distracted that she wasn't even sure she'd heard her husband correctly. With a final tug, she managed to free her hair, and she set Danielle down on the floor before anything else could happen. "What did you say?"

"You and me. Valentine's dinner at Rene's."

"Rex, I've been cooking all afternoon…" Gasping, Bree rushed back to the oven and opened the door, gazing in at her burned dinner. Of all the days to forget to take her roast out of the oven, this would be the worst—for her and Rex, Valentine's Day was all about tradition, and her cooking this meal for him was a big part of it. This time, the tears did come, welling silently in her eyes as she pulled out her ruined dinner.

"I know," said Rex, drawing her back to the present. She bit her lip to keep from sobbing and tried to concentrate on his words. "I know you said you wanted to have a quiet meal at home, but, sweetie, we haven't been out since the baby was born. Don't you want to get out of the house for a night?"

Bree glanced down at Danielle; she'd rolled onto her stomach and had that determined look on her face like she wanted to start to crawl but wasn't quite there yet. Six months, day in and day out with her kids; it was no wonder that she was about to cry over a ruined dinner. "We don't have a babysitter."

"My mom will watch them."

"Really?"

"Well you have to call and ask her, but I'm sure she'll say yes."

She scowled, ready to reprimand him for being such a coward about talking to his own mother, when suddenly there was a spectacular crash in the other room. Terrified, Bree dropped the phone and hurried back to the living room. The vase of roses that Rex had sent her this morning lay shattered on the floor next to Andrew's playpen where he stood frozen with a scared expression on his face. Somehow, she realized dimly, he'd managed to tip the vase off of the end table; it was a miracle that it hadn't fallen on top of him.

"Andrew," she scolded; her heart was beating like a jackhammer. "That was a terrible thing to do!"

Remorseless, Andrew flopped down in the playpen and picked up his teddy bear. Bree took a step toward the mess on the floor, and then belatedly remembered her husband. With a groan, she went back to the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Rex?"

"Bree? What happened?"

"Andrew broke…It doesn't matter."

As usual, Rex took her dismissal with complete nonchalance; sometimes she wished he'd insist comforting her. "Okay. So you'll call my mom?"

Bree shook her head, reaching down and scooping Danielle off of the floor again. "Sure."

"Great. I can't wait for tonight."

"Sweetie," she said, trying to keep her tone even but barely succeeding. "I really have to go."

"Yeah, okay. Oh! Did you get my flowers?"

Bree just sighed.

* * *

Rex poked at his crème brûlée, more interested in making indentations with the prong of his fork than in actually eating the dessert. For the fourth time since they'd gotten to the restaurant, Bree had slipped away to call home and see how the kids were doing. Considering that his primary purpose of getting her out of the house was to make her to think about something other than the kids, this was particularly disheartening.

Personally, Rex didn't see what the big deal about Valentine's Day was. The first one he and Bree had ever spent together, they'd holed up in the library to study most of the night. As the evening wore on, the library grew more and more deserted until finally they were the only ones left; it was only then that his attention had gone from reading about anatomy to a hands on approach—specifically an examination of Bree's lips. If anyone asked, he would gladly admit that it was the only Valentine's day he'd ever really enjoyed. All subsequent celebrations had been rather run-of-the-mill: candy, flowers, quiet dinner at home. After awhile they blurred together. The fact that today was Valentine's Day meant very little to him.

Mostly, Rex wanted a night alone with her. A night where she didn't think or talk about the kids. A night where they gazed into each other's eyes until his heart sped up and he remembered exactly why he'd married her. A night where she relaxed and looked at him like she used to. The holiday was merely an excuse—a moment to regain the one thing he wanted most: the girl he'd fallen in love with ten years ago.

So far he was failing miserably.

"Okay," sighed Bree, sinking back into her seat and placing her napkin across her lap in one elegant sweep. She glanced disdainfully at the mess he'd made of their dessert, but before she could comment, he spoke.

"How are the kids?"

"Fine. They're sleeping."

"Huh. Same as twenty minutes ago. Thank goodness you called."

Bree pursed her lips—this only seemed to add to her beauty. Despite her preoccupation with their children, she had put quite a bit of effort into her appearance tonight. Her hair was swept up away from her face and she wore a modest little black dress that was just a little too tight in the chest (not that he was complaining). It was a nice change, seeing her so dolled up.

"You don't understand how difficult it is for me to leave the kids. I've been with them constantly for the past six months."

_Oh right_, thought Rex, drifting back to the present. Reluctantly he dragged his eyes back up to her face. _The kids_.

"I just wish you'd pay me half the attention you're paying them. I wanted to take you out to get your mind off of them for a night."

Bree smiled at this—her genuine smile, not that fake one she plastered on to be polite. Impulsively, he dropped his fork and reached out to take her hand. "I've missed you."

"You've missed me?"

"Yes. Everything has been about the kids lately. It's nice to get you to myself for a night."

"Well it's nice for me too," she agreed. From her tone of voice, though, he wasn't entirely convinced. "Staying home with the kids all day…sometimes it gets to be a bit…much."

"Oh please. I've never seen you happier in your entire life."

Bree's smile faltered slightly, growing strained in that way he disliked so much. He wanted to tell her that it was okay to tell him the truth—that he wouldn't judge her for it. Somehow, he didn't think it would matter much. "I just mean," he added, eager to ease the sudden, strained silence, "that you're a fantastic mother. I wouldn't want anyone else raising my kids."

A warmth crept into Bree's eyes, one he hadn't seen in much too long. The look made his heart speed up.

"All right," she said coyly. She dropped his hand and picked up her fork, carving out a delicate bite of the dessert. "You win. I won't mention the kids again tonight."

"Really?"

"Yes. But," she said, batting her eyes, "you also have to promise to go look at houses with me this weekend."

"Bree…"

"There's an open house in Newton—"

"Fine," he groaned, mostly because he didn't want to discuss this now—not when he almost had her back. They'd been arguing about moving to a bigger house for months; no matter how many times he said they couldn't afford it, Bree never seemed to hear him. Besides the kids, this was the one thing that seemed to be perpetually on her mind. "We'll go look. But that's it."

"Thank you."

He watched as she took her bite of the crème brûlée, a victorious little smirk toying on her lips. Without thinking, he stood and leaned across the table to peck her lips. She was gazing at him as he sat back down, scandalized by the public affection, but he just gave her a thoughtful smile. "You know you're sexy when you get your way."

"Just think of how great I'll look if you buy me a new house."

Rex laughed, his pleasure at hearing her joke bubbling up and out of him without hesitation. She flushed, obviously pleased. Picking up his glass of champagne, he tilted it in Bree's direction. "Happy Valentine's Day, darling."

Bree clinked her glass with his and took a sip. Then, to his delight, she leaned over to give him another impetuous kiss. In all the world, it was the best thing he could have asked for tonight. Unrepentant romance—just like they'd had in the library all those years ago. A reminder…

She was still the same woman he'd fallen in love with.


	2. Friday

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine. Nope. Not at all.

**A/n: **In my timeline, this would have been the February before season five started (my five year jump happens a little bit later than it would have happened in real time). As the chapter that inspired me to write this fic, I hope you guys enjoy. Please let me know what you think.

-Ryeloza

**A Week of Valentines**

A story by **Ryeloza**

**Chapter Two: Friday**

_Friday, February 14, 2014_

For the tenth time that day, Tom pulled out the tickets he'd purchased from his jacket pocket and just held them for a moment, a physical reminder that they actually existed. It was unusual for him to be so insecure, but he'd gotten it into his head that this Valentine's Day had to be perfect, and that kind of expectation led to anxiety. It wasn't just past experience working against him—a credo of the higher he aimed, the harder he fell—but also a colossal mistake. Their last anniversary had been nothing short of disastrous.

At the time, Tom really hadn't been convinced that the whole thing was his fault. After sixteen years, he'd been tired of being the one to always plan the big romantic gesture. His way of thinking had been somewhere along line of: "If she wants romance, then it's her turn to create it." Part of him still thought he wasn't entirely wrong, but he realized now that he might have gone too far the other way. In fact, getting her a card and then sitting around all day on the computer might have been a bit extreme. That was why he had to make it up to her now; he owed her.

The evening was planned down to a science. They'd agreed to ship the kids off to various friends' houses for the night, but Lynette had no idea that it was for anything more than a quiet night at home. Instead, they'd start with the dinner he'd just picked up from that little Italian place she liked—an illusion that this was his only surprise—and then afterwards he'd spring the tickets on her. Two seats at a revival movie house for _The Philadelphia Story_, the first movie they'd ever watched together. She was going to be blown away.

Tucking the tickets back into his jacket, Tom tapped out an anxious beat on the steering wheel as he waited for the red light to turn green. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so eager to get home; he'd honestly forgotten how much fun it was to surprise her. That delighted grin she'd get that would light up her whole face; that sparkle in her eye; the way she looked at him like he was the only guy in the world. Those were the reasons he loved being romantic; she never failed to be impressed.

After the last few minutes of the drive stretched out interminably, Tom finally pulled into his driveway and shut off the car. Maneuvering took a bit of finesse—he had his briefcase, flowers and dinner to carry inside—but he finally managed to get out of the car without dropping a single thing. Distractedly, he kicked the door shut and headed into the house, but the second he stepped inside, he stopped short.

All of the lights in the house were off, but Lynette had lit candles—more than he even knew they owned. They lined the stairs as a flickering pathway to follow, and like a moth to the flame, Tom dropped everything in his hands right where he stood and walked toward the light. He hadn't gone more than a step when something crunched under his foot; curious, he looked down and saw the powdered remains of something white on the floor, almost as though he'd stepped on a piece of chalk. Glancing ahead, he noticed a piece of candy sitting in his path just another foot ahead, and he reached down to pick it up. It was one of those chalky, candy hearts—the ones with the little phrases written on them. The one he held was pink with the words "Be mine" etched onto it. With a delighted shake of his head, Tom grinned.

Apparently, he hadn't been the only one with a plan.

Everything else forgotten, Tom started up the stairs, careful not to tread on any more of the candies. The candles and hearts guided him all the way up the stairs and down the hall to their bedroom. Inside, he found a world entirely alit with more candlelight; they were everywhere—the dresser, the nightstands, the floor. Soft music was playing as well, but to his surprise, Lynette was nowhere in sight. It took him a moment to realize that his candy trail hadn't ended; the hearts continued straight from their bedroom into the bathroom, and Tom didn't hesitate to finish the journey.

The bathroom was as exquisitely lit at the bedroom, but Tom didn't bother to admire a thing except his wife. Lynette lay in their bathtub, arms hooked over the side, watching him with a sweet, seductive smile. Instantly his heart sped up, but before he could say a word, she opened her mouth and set one last candy heart on the tip of her tongue. Tom swallowed hard—his whole being seemed to be lost in watching her—and it was a long moment before he was finally able to move. Everything seemed to slow down: he walked toward her, dropping to his knees and cupping her face in his hands, and for a few seconds, he just stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. He wanted to burn this image into his brain to keep with him forever; a never-ending picture that he could replay over and over for the rest of his life.

When he finally kissed her, fireworks exploded.

Several minutes passed before Tom finally pulled back to stare at her again. Already she looked satiated, like his kisses had been enough to sustain her for a lifetime. He wondered if she knew that he'd never get enough of her—not in ten lifetimes.

"Hi," she said quietly. Her voice made his head swim. "I've been waiting for you."

"I can see that." He glanced around the room, impressed all over again by the amount of effort she'd put into this. It was unbelievable how she'd taken something so simple and made it everything, but then, that was her. She made the mundane incredible on a daily basis. "This is…amazing."

"You like it?"

"I love it. I love you."

Lynette smiled and leaned forward to peck his lips again. "I love you too."

"You know you didn't have to—"

"I know." She gave a tiny shrug and bit her lip for a moment, almost as though she was contemplating something. Hesitantly, she added, "But…Well…"

"Yeah?"

"You remember last year when you basically blew off our anniversary?"

Tom's stomach plummeted; he so desperately didn't want that day to ruin this. Not now; not when the whole world seemed perfect. "Lynette, I—"

With one gentle finger pressed to his lips, she silenced him. Slowly, her gaze drifted from his mouth to his eyes, holding him captive in that way only she'd ever been allowed to. "That day you told me that you were tired of all the big romantic gestures being left up to you. And, well, don't get me wrong, you still made a mess of that day, but I've been thinking that maybe you were right. Maybe I do leave a lot of the romance to you." She smiled, moving her hand to cup his cheek; it took all of his willpower not to reach out and touch her bare skin. With a slight shrug—one that tried so hard to cover the tentative anxiousness in her eyes with nonchalance—she quietly added, "This is my way of making it up to you."

Tom leaned forward to kiss her again as her hand trailed to the back of his neck; water dripped down his shirt, but he didn't care. He also didn't care about the tickets that were going to go to waste or the expensive dinner waiting downstairs that they'd have to reheat. This moment was too perfect. He sighed contentedly and gave her another quick kiss. "I think I'm the one who owes you."

"No."

"Yeah. Because without you…" He pulled back so he could look at her again—her soft smile, the curve of her neck, the warmth in her eyes. Sometimes it hurt to love her this much. "Without you my life would be meaningless. Without you I wouldn't have anything. So, yeah, I'd say I owe you everything."

Lynette pressed her lips together the way she always did when she was fighting emotion, and she tilted her head to the side, looking at him fondly. "I have a way you can pay me back," she said coyly. Without trying, his face broke into a grin.

"I thought you might."

"Get naked and then get in this tub. I think you can take it from there."

"Whatever you say, gorgeous." Leaning forward, he kissed her again, his hands going straight to the buttons of his shirt. At this point, he couldn't get undressed quickly enough, and judging by the look on Lynette's face, she felt the same way. Soon his clothes lay in a pile on the floor, and he eased himself into the bathtub behind her, finally touching her, finally feeling her silky body against his. He reached forward and laced their fingers together as Lynette turned her head to kiss him.

"Happy Valentine's Day, baby."

Tom could only keep kissing her in response.


	3. Saturday

**Disclaimer: **This is not mine. I'm just playing.

**A/n: **Thank you so much to those of you who have reviewed. I deeply appreciate that you take the time to let me know what you think.

**A Week of Valentines**

A story by **Ryeloza**

**Chapter Three: Saturday**

_Saturday, February 14, 2004_

"I'm fine."

Mary Alice kept her gaze firmly fixed on Paul, watching as he fidgeted with his tie. This was the tenth time he had told her this lie today, and it had become progressively more obvious that he wasn't fine at all. Even across the room, she could see that his skin was clammy and his eyes glassy; he was in far worse condition than he'd been when he'd woken up with the sniffles. The man couldn't have been more stubborn if he tried; she had no idea why he was being so insistent that he wasn't about to collapse.

"Paul, honey, you do remember that I used to be a nurse, right?"

Her husband shot her an agitated look and disappeared into their bathroom. "And now you're a mother," he called. Mary Alice furrowed her brow.

"Does one cancel out the other?"

"In this case, yes. You're overreacting. Getting all worked up over a little cold."

Mary Alice sighed, standing and trailing Paul into the bathroom. Unsurprisingly, he stood gripping the sink with his head drooped. He looked ready to pass out. Concerned, she stepped over and put a hand on his forehead. "We could settle this right now if you just let me take your temperature."

"I don't have a fever."

"I'd argue otherwise."

Paul tisked her, turning on the water and splashing some on his face. She rubbed his back comfortingly. "Sweetie, why are you being so stubborn about this? You aren't feeling well—just admit it."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because—It's Valentine's Day. We have a reservation. We're supposed to be celebrating."

In spite of everything else, Mary Alice couldn't help but smile. Paul wouldn't admit it if his life depended on it, but deep down he was a romantic guy. Her friends never believed it when she tried to tell them this. It was no secret to her that Paul wasn't the most well-liked man on the street. She supposed it was natural given how isolated he was. He'd never been particularly good in social situations—never the funny guy or the charming one, and at times his intelligence came off as snobbery. But that was Paul; he wasn't suddenly going to change, and, most of the time, she really didn't want him to. After so many years, Mary Alice had come to realize that others' perceptions of her marriage weren't as important as what she knew in her heart. She'd gotten better at ignoring the pitying looks—the concerned glances that her friends exchanged on the sly. They didn't understand, and nothing she said or did could change that.

"Paul," she said gently. It wouldn't do to wound his pride; he'd only grow more obstinate if she did. "You have no idea how much I love you for caring this much about Valentine's Day."

"I don't."

She ignored this, leaning in and kissing the back of his neck. "No other man on this street would go through all of this for one silly holiday. I am so lucky."

"You need a night out. I've been so worried about you lately. You've seemed so sad."

Mary Alice shrugged. She'd started going to therapy a month ago, but she felt like she was holding too much inside—there was too much she couldn't say to the doctor; too many secrets that were too dangerous to put into words. Ones that even she and Paul didn't mention any more. Lately, they seemed to be haunting her more and more often. If she didn't find an escape soon, she was fairly certain she might go crazy.

Moments like this, though, were all the reminder she needed of all the good she had in her life.

"You're a great husband."

"I was going to pay the violinist to play our song."

She nodded, wrapping an arm around Paul and forcibly leading him back to the bedroom. "That's sweet. Maybe we can do it next weekend."

"I made this reservation three months ago."

"Well then we can do it in another three months. It'll almost be our anniversary."

"Yeah," agreed Paul, allowing her to undo his tie and unbutton his shirt. He finally seemed to have resigned himself to being sick; he didn't even protest as she pulled down the covers and tucked him in—a sure sign that he wasn't well. He was not the type who enjoyed being mollycoddled. Tenderly, she kissed his cheek and then stood, kicking off her heels. If she was truthful, she wasn't particularly upset about getting to spend the night in her pajamas with a good book.

Paul shut his eyes, tugging the covers up to his neck and yawning. "Next year will be better, I promise."

"I don't doubt that. But for now, you just need to relax. Get some sleep."

"Hmm," Paul sighed. He was already half-asleep, and she smiled down at him. "You take such good care of me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Mary Alice shook her head fondly; Paul was so much sweeter than he pretended to be. And, as much as he'd never admit it, he was absolutely adorable when he was sick and vulnerable. Deep down she knew that he was more than capable of taking care of himself, but he always made her feel so needed—more than anything, more than fancy dinners or special music or romance, more than his looks or concern for her or his intelligence, more than every complicated secret he kept for her, she loved him for that.

She'd never tell him, though. He wouldn't really understand. No one could.

Slowly, she bent and kissed his forehead one last time. "Happy Valentine's Day, sweetie."


	4. Sunday

**Disclaimer: **It's still not mine.

**A/n: **Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed! And thank you to everyone who read, as well, though it's always twice as nice to hear what you think.

A little angst-ridden today (sometimes that feels like my default Bree/Orson setting, but given their timeline, it was nearly impossible to find a Valentine's Day that wouldn't have been fraught with drama. Maybe their first, but considering my other plans for this story, that didn't work out). Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

-Ryeloza

**A Week of Valentines**

A story by** Ryeloza**

**Chapter Four: Sunday**

_Sunday, February 14, 2010_

For Orson to say he stormed into the room might have been an exaggeration—in his whole life, he'd never really been so emotionally rash as to have _stormed_ in or out of a room—but at the very least it was a brisk, ire-raised entrance. Still, the most Bree managed to do was to glance up from the flowers she was arranging and give him that _faux_-innocent smile she sported so well. "Hello," she said, acting as though he had gleefully danced into the room. "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?"

"I just got a call confirming our reservation at Antonelli's tomorrow night."

With her back to him now, Orson couldn't decipher whether Bree picked up on the annoyance in his voice. Her penchant for denial was much harder to glean as genuine or not when he couldn't see her face. "Wonderful."

"Bree, I don't want to go."

"Well of course we're going. It's Valentine's Day."

"I told you I didn't want to celebrate this year."

"I realize that, dear. That's why I had to scramble to make the reservation when I found out you hadn't. Do you know how much finesse it took? We can't possibly cancel now."

Orson ogled her back ineffectually; she simply continued to ready the tea—as if it took so long to put a kettle on. "Bree?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to go."

Finally, she turned, and Orson was pleased to see that any semblance of pretended normality was gone. In fact, her brow was creased and her shoulders tightened like she was readying herself for a fight. Orson felt the queerest urge to push her until she yelled at him (not that Bree yelled any more than he stormed about the house). Quietly, she said, "Orson, this is our last holiday together in the foreseeable future. I don't understand why you wouldn't want to enjoy it."

"So," he said, a mock cheerfulness masking his anger, "we're finally acknowledging the elephant in the room."

"Please, Orson," she begged haughtily. "Don't make this worse than it already is."

"I'm going to prison, Bree. There's no way to make that worse!"

Bree flinched, turning back to the stove to hide the momentary flash of some feeling (sorrow?; anger?; regret?) in her eyes. For a moment, Orson wished that she'd just let him see her again as a truly feeling, caring woman—the person who had been absent even since he'd agreed to this incredibly difficult task. It was impossible not to blame her for everything if only because she was the one acting like he was going off to a spa rather than jail. He thought that if she just showed one moment of regret then he could forget everything else and come out of this a whole man again.

She wasn't going to do that, though. Really, he probably didn't even deserve it.

"You should take Andrew," he intoned haltingly. "I wouldn't want to sour your reputation at Antonelli's."

"Orson—"

"I'm not going, Bree. There's nothing else to say."

The kettle began to shriek as Orson turned and left the room. If Bree was crying (the Bree he knew would have cried), then her sobs were entirely masked by that sound. But Orson didn't particularly care to find out; he was tired of trying to coax her out of hiding.

* * *

The following morning, Orson was up and out of bed before Bree even stirred. After their confrontation in the kitchen, they'd avoided one another the rest of the day as only two people who had mastered the art of evasion could. It wasn't hostile, simply purposeful, and Orson felt no need to stop now. While Bree dreamt until the garishly late hour of eight-thirty, Orson was going to creep out of the house for early services and then spend the rest of the day at the park with Benjamin. Time felt so precious now, anyway; he could only feel the slightest remorse for not granting Bree the same courtesy.

Orson turned on the shower, wincing at how loud it sounded in the still quiet of the dawning day. Vaguely it occurred to him that he should have used the other bathroom, but he stubbornly stepped under the spray without taking the idea as any more than a fleeting thought. The water pressure was still too low. He wished that he was the type of man who could fix that; he wished he was the type of man who could fix anything. His whole life was such a mess.

Friday, he'd had to say goodbye to the office. He'd sold the practice to an old friend of his—Lowell Grant—and the only small blessing was that his employees had been able to keep their jobs. Elaine, his receptionist, had cried, though. She'd baked a cake for the party—a misshapen creation that had surely come from Betty Crocker or someone similar. Bree would have detested it, but Orson made himself to eat every last bite of the two pieces Elaine forced on him. Afterwards, she'd taken him quietly aside and announced she was leaving as well; early retirement, she'd called it. She and her husband were going to travel.

"I just couldn't stand to be here without you, Dr. Hodge," she'd said through a watery smile. "I've been with you from the start. Seems right to end with you."

Later, once he was alone with the sad remnants of a party he hadn't wanted, Orson had cried. Somehow, his sixty-year-old receptionist had showed more emotion about his impending incarceration than his wife ever had. It shouldn't have been fitting, yet in some way, Orson wasn't at all surprised. It felt like the story of his life.

Even now, Orson couldn't help but wonder how his and Bree's goodbye would be. Was there any possible way that he could leave without anything but love lingering between them? He strongly doubted it.

As he stood in the shower lost in thought, Orson shut his eyes and offered up some silent prayer that he knew wouldn't come in church this morning. _Please let us get through this. Please. _Faith borne in desperation; just one in his life, Orson wanted to feel that faith come from hope instead.

The shower door opened, and Orson didn't have to open his eyes to know that he'd been caught. Bree didn't say anything, however, and as she stepped into the shower with him, Orson didn't protest. From behind, she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her and laying her head against his back. It took every ounce of his strength not to dissolve into tears.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Bree said gently. She kissed him directly between his shoulder blades and Orson shivered. The urge to give in to her was overwhelming; bitterness, though, won.

"Please, don't." The words came out so defeated; in that moment, Orson hated himself. "Don't pretend that everything is okay."

"Isn't that what we're good at? Pretending everything is okay even if it's not?"

"Maybe I don't want to pretend today."

Bree continued to plant kisses against his back and shoulders. His body seemed hyper-aware of hers: the way her breasts pressed into his back; the feel of her hands on his chest; the spark of electricity every time her lips touched him. Yet she wasn't pushing him; just loving him. In all of this, she'd never stopped loving him.

He had to stop faulting Bree for being the woman she'd always been.

"I'm scared," he admitted, voice barely audible over the shower. "Bree, I'm so scared. I'm scared of going. I'm scared of leaving you and Benjamin. I'm scared…"

"Yes?"

"I'm scared I'm going to lose you."

Bree sighed into him. "You're never going to lose me."

Orson wanted to believe that. He was desperate to believe that. But years of separation faced them, and he wasn't sure that any couple could survive that. Maybe for something noble, like going off to war, but this wasn't akin to that in any way. This was atonement, though he was no longer clear on which of them was asking for forgiveness.

"Orson?"

He came back to her absently. "Yes?"

"I just want one more day for us to be a couple. One more wonderful day for us to hold on to whenever things seem unbearable. I know I shouldn't ask for this, but can't you give me this one last moment? Please?"

Slowly, Orson turned in her arms and looked down into her eyes. For the first time in months, she was there—baldly facing him with a thousand emotions on her lovely face. In that moment, Orson would have given her the world if she asked.

"Please?" She mouthed the word silently. Orson felt his heart shatter into a million pieces.

Wordlessly, he leaned down and kissed her, a lifetime of passion built into one kiss.

One way or another, they were going to last through this one day.


	5. Monday

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: **I am returning to this fic for two reasons. One, because I am annoyed by the number of WIPs I have hanging out, and I really want to try to reduce that, and two, because I got a review on this today that made me laugh very hard at a moment when I needed a laugh. So here we go, my second attempt to finish this before V-day. Hopefully I'll have better luck this year.

**A Week of Valentines**

A Story by **Ryeloza**

**Five: Monday**

_Monday, February 14, 1994_

"Come on," said Karl. He gave a little tug at Susan's hand as she turned reluctant eyes back toward the hall full of happy, tipsy people. There was something about Susie and weddings that rendered her star-struck—she couldn't tear herself away for a moment; of course, a moment alone with her was all he'd wanted all night. "I promise we'll be back by the time she throws the bouquet."

He walked her into an adjacent room that had been set up for the bridal party before they'd entered. Remains of hors d'oeuvres still sat on a table, various wraps, purses and suit jackets abandoned among chairs. The door shut quietly behind them, the music merely an echo among the faint tinkling of laughter. "Now this is more like it," he said, pulling Susan toward him and giving her a quick kiss. The sequins on her dress scratched at his hands, but he kept a firm grip on her hips. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"The most romantic day of the year." Susan gave a little sigh and wrapped her arms around him, her arms seeking warmth under his suit jacket. "We should have gotten married on Valentine's Day."

Karl rolled his eyes. "Susan, you went on and on and on about how important it was to you to get married in July because that's when your grandparents got married. Remember? 'Oh, but Karl, they were married forty-five years!'"

"But this is so romantic."

Karl bit back a retort about how lame a Monday evening wedding was—how the reception would be over by nine and hardly anyone had been able to come and how the _bride and groom_ were planning to go to work tomorrow. Susan would choose to do her selective hearing thing anyway. Instead, he protested, "Hey, our wedding was romantic. Remember who you're married to, Susie Q."

"Karl Mayer, attorney."

"Karl Mayer, king of romance." He dipped her, grinning as she giggled, and planted a soft, quick kiss against her neck. "And don't you forget it."

Susan's fingers tightened against him, her eyes dropping to his lips for a second, her big brown eyes unusually coy. It wasn't a look she pulled often—she was too ingenuous and genuine to get away with acting coquettish—but seeing it now sent a shiver straight down his spine. "Don't let me," she murmured.

He straightened up and kissed her so soundly that he got lost in the passion. It took him a minute to pull back from that fire, to remember that he had a plan to adhere to and to reach into his pocket for the little velvet box he'd had delivered to the office this morning. Unfortunately, he wasn't quite as sneaky as he hoped; he could feel Susan's lips curl into a smile against his and she stepped back, eyes lit up like the night sky. "Is that for me?" she asked, unable to quell the eagerness in her expression.

"I already sent you flowers and chocolate this morning, Susie. You really think you're that special?"

"Yes!"

She reached for the box and he put his hands in his pockets, watching as she opened it and her face melted into an expression of shock. It was a little over-the-top, diamonds and emeralds, but the exact kind of princessy, extravagant thing Susan so secretly craved. Sure, maybe the purchase had been slightly fueled by guilt (Susan still hadn't completely put that lipstick stain on his collar out of her mind), but he couldn't deny that seeing her so excited wasn't motivation as well.

"Oh Karl," she breathed, her eyes flitting up to his and then back to the bracelet. "Oh, oh, Karl."

"I knew you'd like it."

"I love it! Thank you!" She kissed him, quickly, and then plucked it from the box, holding out her wrist so he could adorn it with jewels. "There," she said, pantomiming like some kind of jewelry model. "What do you think?"

"Gorgeous, Susie. Just like you."

"Hmm, you're a smooth talker, you know that?"

Karl grinned wolfishly, leaning in closer and kissing her cheek. "How else would I have gotten you to marry me?"

"Oh!" Susan's hands flew to his chest, pushing him back just as he moved to kiss her again. "The reception! Karl, we're missing everything."

She turned to flee, but Karl caught her around the waist and backed her up to the wall, any promise he'd made hollow in light of her so beautiful and happy and his. "Karl…"

"I'm just asking for you, Susie…" His hand brushed her hair away, thumb settling softly against her cheek. "That's all."

Susan smiled. "That's everything," she said, but he barely heard her as he leaned down and captured her in the warmth of his embrace.


End file.
